


House of Memories

by vellaphoria



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Tim tries (and fails) to avoid his birthday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-19
Packaged: 2018-12-03 20:44:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11540109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vellaphoria/pseuds/vellaphoria
Summary: Tim is waist deep in the wilderness of his hallway closet when it hits him.Literally. Right on the forehead.





	1. Chapter 1

Tim is waist deep in the wilderness of his hallway closet when it hits him.

Literally. Right on the forehead.

He has one arm reaching blindly into the closet’s dark abyss while the other holds back the deluge of stored things. Because _obviously_ the spare wiring kit is all the way in the back and _evidently_ it’s been a while since he last cleaned this thing out. Or, at least made sure it wasn’t a clear and present danger to his physical wellbeing.

There _is_ a reason he never opens this thing.

But a stretch even farther into the closet’s depths shifts his hold and Tim only gets a few seconds to register panic before the world comes crashing down around him.

The avalanche would have made a spectacular mess of anyone else’s apartment. But some apartments are for show, others are safe houses for Red Robin, and this one is dedicated to the storage of everything he can’t be bothered to keep in the first two.

As it is, the pile’s contents emerge from their hibernation to settle among the debris of Tim’s storehouse. Considering the general clutter level of this place, if Tim hadn’t seen it happen, he might not have even noticed the difference. Alfred would be horrified.

Old books, playing cards, and something that looks suspiciously like an outdated listening device end up the top of the pile; beneath them, an odd mixture of things too personal to keep in a safe house but not useful enough to have permanent places in the manor. Kind of like Tim outside of the Red Robin suit.

The closet still looks full, waiting for aftershocks to send something else crashing against forehead. Tim can feel the beginnings of a bruise; he isn’t going to risk it.

It only takes a few cautious steps backwards, weaving between the newly settled rubble, to reach less precarious territory.

The offending object has come to rest a few feet from the pile, looking deceptively harmless next to Tim’s foot.

He hasn’t seen this camera in years.

An old Polaroid attached to a thick strap; a relic of a time when he hadn’t wished to risk his mother’s ire over expending family funds on frivolous hobbies. It’s a faded contrast to the bright red of Tim’s converse, and when he picks it up, the strap still smells like sweat and smog – Gotham at night. Perfect.

He runs his hands over the camera (had it really seemed so big?) and lets childhood muscle memory guide his fingers. Over the indentation of the capture button, worn down by adrenaline and the blunt excitement of an eight year old’s fingernails. Over the small crack in the casing where an ally cat had startled him into dropping it.

Into the little pocket where the last picture he’d taken was still waiting for Tim to finish convincing Nightwing that _Batman needs a Robin_.

The closet looms menacingly. Well, now he _has_ to.

The corresponding box is also, _unsurprisingly_ , shoved somewhere in its depths. He stretches to the tips of his toes, careful not to accidently dislodge any more fragments of Tim Drake. He’s more or less successful, and only a few more things join the tangled rubble of the storeroom floor.

The box is old, heavy, and it sends dust motes spiraling in the room’s dim light as he drags it across the shelf. A shoe brand that no longer exists in a size more fit for throwing at people than realistically wearing. The contents are only a little faded.

The main room’s tiny couch is more than accepting of Tim’s decision to leave the mess for another time – this is more important. He flicks the table lamp on, letting its buttery glow do battle with the neon lights of the next building over. There are more pictures than space on the surrounding crates, so he sifts through for old favorites:

Robin sitting on a gargoyle; a knight in scaly panties riding a hellish steed into battle. Batman landing a kick to Scarecrow’s jaw, letting the bulk of his weight press down on Penguin’s head. The Dynamic Duo posing heroically on a Midtown skyscraper, Catwoman lounging in the shadows behind them, looking directly at the camera with a finger pressed to her smirking lips.

He gave Selina a copy of that one about a year after taking the job. The last time he ended up in her penthouse, it was still framed on her bookcase.

It’s the little things that count.

He doesn’t find the one he’s looking for until he’s almost at the bottom of the box. White edges slightly yellowed with age and a corner bent out of place where it was wedged into place with a little too much force; his first picture.

It’s blurred and barely there – a child’s first attempt at capturing living art from the dark, low rooftop – but Tim can still make it out after all these years. Two thugs tied together, back to back, and hanging from a fire escape. A third at the mouth of the alleyway, significantly bigger frame doubled over in pain from a pixie boot to the gut.

Tim’s memory more than the picture reminds him of how he hadn’t been able to suppress a smile from his vantage point; Robin’s enthusiasm for Gotham’s nightlife was infectious. Still is, though the man hasn’t worn the costume in years.

It’s a sharp contrast to the picture stashed in the back pocket of the polaroid’s casing; left to develop, it’s the last picture the camera took. He never took the chance to look at it back when he traded his camera for a cape.

Well, the quality – if not the subject – is certainly better. Where the picture of Dick was all blurry lines and subpar perspective, this one is clear as blood left to dry on an abandoned crowbar; sharp contrast where the midnight of Batman’s cape bisects the streetlight’s glow. Face forced into a chilling growl, steel-lined boot pressing down on the black and blue of a mugger’s already bruised neck. A man on the edge, drowning in anger and sorrow. A Batman without a Robin.

There are still days when Tim wishes he hadn’t done it, hadn’t taken something that is supposed to be given. Replaced the irreplaceable with a cheap knockoff meant to be a reminder (but never a provider) of purpose.

But.

The reminder had worked, and Tim can never regret that.

The picture of Batman goes on top of the pile, carefully stored with rest of Tim-before-Robin beneath a dusty box lid.

His limbs feel heavy in a way that can’t quite be explained by sleep deprivation, but his storage space has no coffee maker and any willpower he had to get off the couch dissipated with the last of Gotham’s sunlight.

He isn’t scheduled for patrol tonight, and Bruce told him in no uncertain terms that showing up at work the next morning will result in all of tomorrow’s tabloids featuring pictures of Wayne Enterprises’ CEO being dragged off the premises by company security.

Ultimatums have always been Bruce’s style, but there isn’t much the man can do to keep Tim from hiding out in this storeroom – which is conveniently unregistered in the Batcomputer – until he’s allowed to get back to both of his jobs.

So, dusty couch it is.

On the bright side, this gives him some time to work on outstanding projects – like wiring the experimental throwing discs he’d started as a present to himself. And if that keeps him from seeing anyone tomorrow (keeps him from risking disappointment), he can at least have a productive – if not enjoyable – birthday.

Tim folds his hoodie into a vague pillow shape and shuts off the light.

The storeroom’s perimeter is locked down and no one knows where he is, so he only feels a little bad when he drifts off instead of finishing his work.


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes Dick forgets how good at hiding Tim can be. How easy it is for him to just _disappear_ into Gotham’s maze if any of them look away for even a second. They all have their specific skillsets, but it’s really something else when even Oracle is having trouble tracking him down.

But not too much trouble; he’s still in Gotham. Also, _Oracle_.

Fruit baskets are in order.

_After_ they extract Tim from the apartment on the edge of the Narrows, hopefully with minimal injury and property damage. He hadn’t _said_ that Tim was supposed to stay around the Manor when they gave him the day off, but it was _implied._

Tim running off and hiding? Nightwing is just as surprised as he expects to be: not very. Tim has always been a little touchy about today – even before the year he went off grid looking for Batman. Stripped from his uniform, cut off from Gotham, working with _Ra’s al Ghul_ of all people.

Even a year ago today, he hadn’t needed the meticulously arranged bouquet of columbine to know exactly what Ra’s thought of his decision-making abilities.

Nightwing scuffs his boot against the gravel rooftop and shoves away the tightness in his chest until he can deal with it later (or, hopefully, try to drown it in Alfred’s cake, bad movies, and cuddling Tim into submission).

But that’s later. Now, he has a job to do.

Even at the height of summer, Gotham’s perma-dusk still seems to settle early. Light spills from windows up and down the street, illuminating the few pedestrians braving Gotham’s night. But there are exceptions; from where Nightwing is sitting, Tim’s safe house is dark. Empty or discouraging visitors with window access.

His vantage point is about three stories above the safe house, giving him an excellent, if incomplete, view of a Tim-sized pile of blankets curled up in the center of a beat up couch. The rest of the apartment looks like a mess of crates and plastic bins.

Storehouse, then. Not a well kept one either, so probably not one of Red Robin’s.

Which would explain why Oracle’s trace found Tim entirely off the Batcomputer’s grid.

The easy part is getting across the street and down to window-level without casting a shadow. Tim’s a light sleeper, so significant changes in light level are risky. The hard part is… well, Nightwing isn’t even going to _think_ about touching those windows until he figures out what he’s dealing with. Tim’s security measures have a history of giving increasingly paranoid meaning to the term _overkill_ , and they was trained by _Batman_.

Speaking of. Bruce would probably take one look at the security and shed a single, manly tear. He’d also likely be inside the apartment – protocols disabled and Tim prevented from escaping – in less than five minutes. These days, those two think too much alike to keep one another out of their security systems.

There’s a reason they grab Tim whenever they need to hack the Batcomputer.

But Bruce is probably still working on cases in the cave, pretending his children aren’t trying to abduct each other for surprise birthday parties.

Nightwing only has to send a quick scan to the Clocktower before instructions are being relayed to a small disabling device he’d brought for the mission.

The breaking and entering protocol comes with a message from Oracle confirming the ground level is covered – Tim is less likely to escape out a stairwell if Batgirl and Robin are waiting to intercept – and Black Bat is watching the rooftops. Hood is en-route to provide backup.

She confirms Nightwing’s suspicions that Bruce is still in the cave, grumbling about how it’s perfectly reasonable to work through one’s birthday. Though Alfred _did_ make good on his threat to lock up the Batsuit. They won’t have to drag him away from patrol tonight, but that doesn’t mean he actually agreed to help them with any of this.

Which would make this so much easier; Oracle is still breaking through Tim’s security protocols.

He amuses himself by trying to guess where Robin is lurking and knocking small debris in his general direction. The coms stay quiet, so either he’s completely off the mark or Nightwing hit him and he’s planning some sort of revenge.

Fifty-fifty he’s going to end up dead or be horrifically maimed tomorrow.

These are the risks that make life interesting.

Once Oracle confirms he isn’t about to get electrocuted, the window only jams a little when he opens it, but the soft clunk of metal meeting metal is quiet enough to avoid disturbing the blanket cocoon on the couch.

The mess of crates will be another matter. One misstep and he’s going to send a stack of them crashing all over the place, and there are too many between Tim and the window for him to stop the kid from making a break for it. Batgirl and Robin are downstairs, but still.

Nightwing can’t risk it; Hood bet him his second piece of Alfred’s cake that he’d let Tim escape the apartment.

There isn’t much room to maneuver, but the Nightwing suit is skintight for a _reason._ Well, several reasons. Like how good he looks twisting around the room like it’s an obstacle course. But mostly because the storeroom is a minefield of possibility for getting a cape caught on something.

Like the shoebox that he almost knocks on the floor with a less than precisely planned turn. He’s almost at the mission objective, but he’s ahead of deadline, so Nightwing slides the lid off and only coughs a little at the puff of dust it releases.

The inside of the thing is a collage of black and red-green-yellow, surrounded by white edges framing Gotham backdrops. Holy jackpot, Batman.

These are Tim’s pictures.

Nightwing’s heard about them, sure. But.

For stealth purposes, the communicators are designed to pick up even whispers.

“N to Hood, I need backup.” This is a job for more than one vigilante.

The communicator crackles to life in his ear, “What? Lose the Replacement already? Hope you know that piece of cake is _mine_ , Di –” and then cuts out.

“No names on the coms.” And that’s the only warning Oracle is going to give them.

“ _Fine._ You ready to lose a bet, _Nightwing?”_

“Not that kind of backup – I need extraction for two packages.” He sifts through the box for an action shot of Batman falling on his face, ankle caught up in Ivy’s vines.

“Trust me, it’s worth your time.”

…

Nightwing probably has Tim’s sleep deprivation to thank when it only takes a few minutes to subdue the younger vigilante and tie him up in a way that will stay escape-proof for the trip back to the Manor.

Even better, Tim can’t see him grab the box of pictures and camera from where Hood uses a fireman carry to get him out the door. Nightwing’s second piece of cake is still’s Hood’s blood price for helping out, but this is _so_ going to be worth it.

To his credit, Alfred doesn’t even raise an eyebrow at the way they’ve decided to transport Tim. Though he does allow a slight smile when Tim realizes that escape is now impossible. Not even Bruce can evade the butler for long, if his half-sulk at the head of the dining table is anything to go on.

Cass, Steph, and Damian beat them back to the Manor, already busy moving all the food Alfred made from the kitchen. Well, Cass and Steph are helping. Damian is doing his best Bruce impression at the opposite end of the table.

Jason practically throws Tim into one of the chairs, impervious to the glare he gets in return when his helmet is placed gently on a side table.

It’s the first shot Dick takes with the polaroid. From a distance, of course. He doesn’t have a death wish.

From somewhere in the direction of the kitchen, Alfred is calmly informing them that anyone not seated by the time the cake comes out isn’t getting any.

At this point, the mad scramble for their chairs is just tradition.

…

Tim has never had one of those moments where he wakes up thinking he’s somewhere else. Before becoming Robin, he never had a reason to; after becoming Robin, Batman trained it out of him.

Still, he doesn’t quite remember the _why_ of it when he wakes up in the Manor’s living room, surrounded by a pile of sleeping vigilantes. Not that he’s necessarily complaining. Being sprawled out on a couch, bracketed by Dick and Jason, is an interesting development, if nothing else.

Sunlight filters through the gaps in the room’s curtains; he wonders if he can successfully escape the room before the small patch making its way across the floor gets far enough to wake Cass up.

The floor by the far end of the couch isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but he didn’t think one person could get away with taking _that_ _many_ pillows without Alfred putting a stop to it. But Cass has always been uniquely talented in getting away with that sort of thing. Though, judging by Steph’s content expression from the other half of the pillow nest, it was probably a group effort.

He can’t see Damian anywhere, but that’s probably just another reason to get out of here before something happens. Whatever birthday-induced truce they had yesterday is probably not in effect anymore.

At this point in Tim’s life, _birthday abduction_ probably shouldn’t be his top ten list of reasons why he’s woken up in strange situations. Really. He got drunk with ninjas the year before.

Tim is only halfway through his post-birthday escape plan when he has to admit the unavoidable.

He’s still tired, and those arms aren’t going anywhere unless Dick wakes up. Which would inevitably result in some sort of octopus hold and waking up the rest of the vigilantes to help restrain him. Which would defeat the purpose of trying to escape unnoticed.

He resigns himself to the fact that Dick makes a pretty decent pillow. Also, Jason seems to think _he_ makes a good pillow, so, yeah, not getting up anytime soon. Clearly his fate is unavoidable and resistance is futile.

For about ten seconds – about how long it takes him to notice the shoebox and camera that are sitting on the nearby coffee table instead of _in storage where no one would ever see them, like they should be._

Tim’s face feels hot with utter mortification, but he does his best to channel that into moving one of his legs out from under Jason. Pins and needles are nothing compared to the using only the muscle groups in his lower leg to shift the table closer.

It isn’t the most surprising thing in the world to see that _someone_ (who is he kidding, it was probably all of them) started going through the pictures after he passed out. What _is_ a surprise is that there are new ones. A lot of them. There wasn’t that much film left in the camera when he’d dusted it off two days before.

They’re spread out across the table in a mess of colors ranging the entire spectrum – not just the black-red-green-yellow of the previous collection. They also have more people. He doesn’t need to shift the pile around to see candid shots from the party last night.

To his left is a blurry shot of everyone racing to sit down before Alfred banned them from cake. Three pictures over, someone got a bad angle of Damian trying to body slam Jason into the couch. Just underneath that, a picture of Bruce smiling quietly at the end of a table filled with his children.

Closest to Tim is a group shot; his determined face as he stares down a cake, surrounded by his family. Staring at the picture, the tight feeling in his chest that he associates with Gotham is still there. It will probably be there for a long time, but there’s a different sort of feeling radiating out from his bones. He still feels tired, but for the first time in a while, Tim feels warm. He feels _safe_.

The revelation is surprising enough that he almost doesn’t notice the small, sleepy yawn next to his ear.

Almost.

The arms holding Tim in place tighten a fraction when he looks up.

“Hey.” Dick’s smile is softer than the early morning sunlight.

“Hey.” It’s infectious.

Lips are pressing against his hair and he doesn’t even protest even though he knows that Dick is going to try and make them talk about this later.

Maybe he’ll manage to escape before then, but for now…

“Happy birthday, Tim.”

It really, really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Columbine can have a lot of meanings, but here I’m going with the Hamlet variant: folly. 
> 
> Admittedly, I know very little about Hamlet, so if this is incorrect, let me know. 
> 
> Though Ra’s is absolutely the kind of immortal megalomaniac who would send passive aggressive bouquets, if only to let other people know when he’s winning.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for #timdrakeweek 2017
> 
> Title from the eponymous Panic! At the Disco Song


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